


Your Lips Hang Heavy Underneath Me

by perfectlystill



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Infidelity, Non-Linear Narrative, Sexual Content, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: She wants to live inside him the way he has lived inside her since she was four and unaware that holding hands with the boy next door was going to alter her alchemy, crush her into powder and remake her into something different.(It’s another excuse, as though Betty was too young to know instead of what it really was and is: a choice she made and remade long after she knew too much.)
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Betty Cooper
Comments: 29
Kudos: 121





	Your Lips Hang Heavy Underneath Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Halsey's "Is There Somewhere?"

But, a little part of me always thought--  
_\--We're both so lucky. Don't you think?_  
RIVERDALE, 1.13: THE SWEET HEREAFTER

Betty grows up on Elm Street in a house with a front door painted red by her mother. 

She asks, “Why red?”

Long after the door has been stained, paint chipping at the bottom right corner, she asks. After gallons of bleach, dried blood picked out of fingernails, claustrophobic nightmares and pounds of trauma. 

She asks, and her mom takes a step back, hands on hips and elbows akimbo. She squints, tilting her head and humming. “You don’t like it?”

Betty swallows. 

“No,” she says. It’s unsettling. A mixture of a childhood less innocent than she remembers and a present plastered with murder and death. It’s comforting. The color is the background of her first-day-of-school pictures, hand in Polly’s, small, anxious smile on her lips, excitement welling in the corners of her eyes. “No, I like it.”

When Betty leaves her very own _Nightmare on Elm Street_ , she looks at the red door.

She’ll be back.

It’s a reality (her mom lives here despite her name no longer being on the deed; her boyfriend’s father lives here, his sister, too) and it’s a curse, and it feels like a choice she’ll keep making over and over again.

The definition of insanity.

For most of her young life, Betty believes she is going to marry the boy next door. It’s gauzy and warm, heartbeat increasing with each year that passes, the inevitable gliding closer on glass slippers. 

She’ll date Archie, and he’ll propose on her 18th birthday. They’ll attend the same university, and they’ll marry when they graduate. They’ll have three kids with shocking red hair and green eyes. Together they’ll erect a white picket fence around a large yard Vegas can run around in, because in Little Betty’s mind, Vegas never dies. 

It wasn’t a dream until one day Betty looked at Archie and felt a new flutter in her stomach, similar to the first time she jumped off the diving board into the deep end or asked her mom about piercing her ears. A new awareness entered her body, extending to her fingers and toes when they sat on Archie’s sofa and watched Saturday morning cartoons. Betty dreamed about the weight of his arm across her shoulders, the pressure of his mouth against her own, and a fire burning behind his eyes when they catch hers.

Betty _liked_ him. 

A certain truth transformed into a daydream. The excitement flipped and flopped, making space for fear and doubt. 

Kevin and Veronica pushed her, and, in the end, all Betty had to show for her bravery was rejection. 

She cried until her eyes stung, her breathing shallow, the excitement previously cradled within her replaced by self-pity.

Archie said she was perfect. 

It rang in Betty’s ears like a backhanded compliment.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Jughead asks. “I can have Sweet Pea go instead?”

An IV pumps hydrating liquid into Betty’s veins. Their daughter’s face scrunches before relaxing, a little puff of air escaping. Agatha is cute, a perfect 7 pounds 4 ounces, 19 inches long, a small tuft of blonde hair on her head. She has Betty’s green eyes and Jughead’s nose, and Betty is completely in love with her. 

“It’s okay. The nurses will take her back soon, anyway,” Betty says.

Jughead hesitates. 

“Go.”

“I’ll be back soon,” he reassures, grabbing his jacket from the uncomfortable chair he moved closer to her bed. He slips it on without breaking eye contact. “I promise.”

“I know.” Her mouth molds itself into a half-smile. “I understand.”

“I love you,” Jughead says, cradling Betty’s cheek before pressing a dry kiss to her mouth. She leans into his palm, briefly settling against the comforting warmth of the gesture before he pulls away, lightly brushing his hand across Agatha’s hair and brushing his mouth over her forehead. “I love you, too,” he whispers.

He pauses at the door. 

Betty rolls her eyes, waving him away as best she can with a baby napping in her arms. The Serpents need him, and as much as he’d never admit it, Jughead needs the Serpents. It’s a mutually symbiotic relationship he cannot break. Betty doesn’t resent him for it. Loyalty, she thinks, cannot be taught. At least not like that.

Her mom fusses over her updo, pressing at the pins. Her floral perfume forms a cloud around them, and the wedding photographer’s camera flashes. Betty clenches her fists, fingernails pressing against her palms without breaking skin. 

She flinches away. “Mom, please.”

“Calm down, Betty. I’m just double-checking.”

“It’s fine.” She gently grabs her mom’s wrists. “My hair doesn’t matter.”

Her mom rolls her eyes, batting at her own hair instead. “It’s your wedding day. You’ve dreamed about this for years.”

Betty would stare at pictures of wedding dresses in the magazines scattered around the hairdresser’s waiting area, her newly trimmed strands barely brushing against her shoulders. Her elastic would itch around her wrist as she flipped the pages, fingers delicately tracing the lace and the beading. 

Kevin helped create a secret Pinterest board with ideas: fairy lights, customized wine cork seat finders, bouquets made with ivory roses and pink peonies and eucalyptus, three-tier cakes and round, almost-rustic tables. There were debates about whether “Thinking Out Loud” was romantic or cliche, if “Can’t Help Falling In Love” would be better. It was sparkling juice in wine glasses, giggling until their stomachs ached, pushing the curtains back and sneaking peaks across the way. Blonde bride and redhead groom cake toppers. 

“I know.” Betty swallows. “But I’m not a little kid anymore.”

Her mom touches her hair again. “It’ll ruin all your pictures.”

“A wedding isn’t about pictures.” Betty tries to laugh, the sound scrapping out of her throat like nails on a chalkboard.

“Do you… not want to get married?” her mom asks. “I can get you out of here. Have the car parked in the alley in five minutes and sneak you out the back. It’s totally understandable to have cold feet, and I support whatever you want, sweetie, you know that. But this might be the best option.”

“Mom. I want to marry Jughead.”

“Okay.” Her mom clears her throat, smile sickly sweet. “Okay.”

“I’m sure,” Betty adds.

“Of course you are.” 

Her mom looks into the full-length mirror, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her dusty blue dress. She’s nicer about Jughead than she used to be, time breeding acceptance and the occasional friendly banter. Betty suspects her mother wouldn’t be happy with anybody she wanted to marry, but the improvement is clear when she meets Betty’s eyes in the mirror. Soft crow’s feet in the corners, an upward tug of her mouth that translates into a desire for Betty’s happiness.

The camera flashes, and then there’s a knock on the door. The venue liaison pokes her head in (Cheryl offered Thistlehouse with a head tilt and pithy, “Cousin,” but if Betty wasn’t keen on the idea, Jughead was even less enthused). “You ready?”

Betty meets her mom’s eyes again, smiles small but sure. “Yeah.”

Veronica studies abroad her junior year of university, and halfway through, she and Archie go on a break. It’s her idea. Archie doesn’t quite know what it means, despite Veronica vowing that it’s not a real break up. She tells Betty she doesn’t want to see anyone else, but she doesn’t want the pressure of checking in every week. It’s stressful, and she feels Archie’s resentment building, a distance forming between them that’s more than the miles of ocean. 

She wants to eat baguettes and walk along the Seine and dance in dark clubs until the sun comes up. She wants to be young without obligation, just for a few months. Betty agrees that it makes sense.

It doesn’t. Not to her. But Veronica looks at Betty like the distance has separated the two of them just as it has separated her from Archie, a barrier blocking the emotion in her eyes. Like if she reveals too much, Betty will tell Archie something she shouldn’t. 

It depends on what there is to tell. 

Veronica and Archie’s break collides with Betty and Jughead arguing about a story she’s writing. His face heats up red, and he hisses sharp words at her. It’s not all on him. Betty shouts, voice raising with each sentence, hands clenched by her sides.

Jughead doesn’t slam the door behind him. 

By the time Betty’s lying on the grass in the Andrews’ backyard with Archie, empty wine coolers around their heads like halos, it’s been two days and he hasn’t responded to any of her (four) text messages.

The day was warm, spent gardening with her mom, scrapping her story, and brainstorming ideas that didn't spark within her, but the heat faded with the setting sun, ushering in a cool breeze that goosebumps along Betty’s arms. Archie’s body is warm next to hers, a hair's breadth away. The alcohol settles in her stomach, her head pleasantly fuzzy, blinking up at the refracting stars.

“Remember dragonflies?” Archie asks. 

“The bug?” A wrinkle forms between her eyebrows but her voice is alight with fond amusement. 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet. “You used to try catching them.”

“But I never could.” She remembers. Hot summer days, Archie’s bare feet smacking against the pavement, his hand in hers before she ever contemplated overthinking it. “You would do it for me.”

“I tried to teach you.” The grass rustles with the turn of his head. 

“Polly would let them go,” Betty says. “She called it animal cruelty.”

“You couldn’t hurt a fly.”

He’s wrong. Archie has always seen her with rose-colored glasses, offering the benefit of the doubt when he shouldn’t. Sometimes it feels like a burden (“ _You’re so perfect_.”) and sometimes it feels like an anchor to the good parts of herself, but mostly it just feels nice.

“I’ve hurt worse,” she says, somewhere between humor and regret. 

“You wouldn’t,” Archie half-clarifies. 

She still thinks he’s wrong. 

Betty stretches her legs and points her toes. “Dragonflies are the fastest insect.”

“Really?”

“They can fly up to 60 miles-per-hour.” 

“Cool.” He’s smiling, Betty can hear it in his voice, easy and light. 

Wind chimes tinkle in the background, and she closes her eyes, exhaling. Betty’s shoulders relax. She recalls summer days lazily fading into humid summer nights. Games of ghost in the graveyard, sprinting away from the orange glow of street lamps, slapping mosquitoes and ducking behind prickly bushes. 

She remembers Archie jumping out from behind a tree to distract Kevin, allowing her to huff and puff her way to her porch and homebase and safety. 

The grass rustles, and his arm brushes against hers.

“Have you heard from Veronica?” Betty asks. 

“No.” 

“I’m sure you will soon.” 

She isn’t. 

Archie sighs. “I don’t know that she wants to talk to me.”

“She does,” Betty insists, rolling onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow. She looks down at Archie. His face is mostly blank, but she knows him well enough to see uncertainty and sadness wrinkling around his mouth. 

“It’s fine, Betty.” His eyes flash to hers, begging and longing, and it tumbles in her gut. 

She kisses him. She kisses him first just like the first two times they’ve kissed. He stills. Betty opens her eyes, apology collecting itself on her tongue, but Archie surges up, catching her mouth. He tastes like wine coolers and barbecue potato chips, and Betty makes a whimpery little noise in the back of her throat. The kiss ratchets itself up her spine, his calloused hand cupping the back of her neck.

As she settles on top of him, Betty’s brain feels hazy, almost like she’s in a dream sequence. Archie’s body is hard and muscular underneath hers in a way she isn’t used to. She likes it. Betty licks her way into his mouth and his other hand settles on the small of her back before working underneath the strap of her overalls.

Archie groans her name as she nips at his jaw. She’s wanted this for so long. Betty’s wanted Archie in an innocent, childish way, and she’s wanted him in a fantastical, teenage dream sort of way, and she’s wanted him in a dirty, lusty way, and she’s pushed it down, folded it up and tucked it into a secret part of herself so she didn’t have to deal with Archie not wanting her in any of those ways. 

Except his fingers tangle in her ponytail, and he presses her closer so they’re touching as much as they can be, mouth open and hungry and searching for hers.

Betty isn’t sure how to stop wanting.

Agatha sprints outside, the screen door banging in her wake. “Uncle Archie!”

“Aggie!” He squats at the end of the driveway, arms open, and she runs into them at top speed. Archie picks her up, spinning her around. Agatha’s laughter carries.

Betty smiles, watching them from the window and drying her hands on a dishtowel. 

He ruffles Agatha’s hair, the blonde darkening with each year, now a sandy color that Betty knows will end up a mirror of her father’s. Agatha tugs on Archie’s hand, pulling him toward the door. Her mouth moves a mile a minute, no doubt regaling him with a story about her day at school or a retelling of _Tangled_ , her new favorite movie. 

She’s a storyteller. More like Jughead and less like Betty. 

Archie smiles down, enraptured. He’s a good uncle. He comes over once a week to teach Agatha guitar and attends all her T-ball games, cheering from the sidelines and only occasionally overstepping by yelling at the refs. The last time she slept over at Archie and Veronica’s, Veronica painted her fingernails, and then Archie let Agatha do his.

“And then her mom sings my favorite song even though she’s the bad guy,” Agatha explains. Archie waves at Betty as her daughter leads him inside, and Betty shakes her head, smile tucked into the edge of her mouth. 

“You better have mastered _The Hokey Pokey_ by dinner!” she calls.

Jughead’s thumb swipes across the curve of Betty’s shoulder. Archie sits across from them in the old recliner that no longer reclines, listening as Jughead explains the plot of his latest novel, line edits just beginning. 

“And to think of all the publishing houses that rejected the first one,” Jughead says, wry. “I was beginning to feel like Marlon James.”

Betty huffs a laugh. “Interesting comparison.”

“Wasn’t a one-to-one,” Jughead replies, squeezing her shoulder. 

“I hope not.” 

“Though he did say that you have to risk going too far.”

Archie’s mouth slants.

“He’s an author,” Jughead clarifies. It could be cruel, but it isn’t. There’s a history that pulses around the room, a tender understanding that threads the three of them together. An inside joke more than a jab. 

Archie rolls his eyes, fond as ever. “I got that.”

The sound of Agatha pitter-pattering down the stairs increases until she hops onto the landing. “I’m ready for bed!”

“Teeth brushed?” Betty asks. 

She bares them, nose scrunching. 

Betty squints. “Mouthwash?”

Agatha shuffles over, wobbling a little as she balances her hands on Betty’s shoulders before audibly exhaling into her face. 

Betty grimaces, jerking away as best she can. “Okay, okay. You’re up,” she tells Jughead, lightly elbowing him in the stomach. 

Jughead reads to Agatha before bed every night, suspenseful mysteries a few grades ahead. Betty worries sometimes. She doesn’t want fear to web itself inside her daughter’s DNA. Nightmares and paranoia and conspiracy theories. But Agatha comes by her love of the genre honestly, has her favorite teddy bear from Grandma and Grandpa to hold onto at night, and never cared much for a nightlight, anyway. 

“Alright, Aggie.” Jughead plants a kiss on Betty's temple before extracting himself. “Say goodnight to Mom and Uncle Archie.”

She hugs Betty tightly, kissing her cheek before padding across the room to do the same with Archie. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she sing-songs. Pushing Jughead toward the stairs, he halts and Agatha slaps at his arm. “Dad, come on.”

“Demanding,” he scoffs, but he lets her shove him all the way up the stairs and then, presumably, down the hall to her room. 

Betty loves them. 

She loves Sunday mornings when Agatha pounds on their bedroom door before pouncing onto their mattress, shaking them, urging them to wake up. She loves Jughead making pancakes, adding chocolate chips and sprinkles to Agatha’s but not hers. She loves reading the first draft of his novels and tracking how the stories change from idea to publication. She loves the solid feeling of their family, steady and secure. 

Betty looks at Archie. 

She loves him, too.

The waning moon cuts through the back windshield as Betty’s hands wrestle with Archie’s belt. Her heart hammers, desire thrumming between her legs like a teenager. He mouths at her neck and she exhales, arching to allow better access. His kisses are wet and sloppy, tongue licking at her pulse. It’s cliche; she feels alive. 

It doesn’t happen often. 

Betty and Archie try to be good. They’ve always tried to be good. But, after weeks of being swamped with work, Jughead will take Agatha to dinner and a movie, or Veronica will be in New York on business, or they’ll bump into each other picking up dinner at Pop’s, and it happens.

It could be Betty running her fingers over a boxing bruise painting itself purple on Archie’s jaw. It could be Archie offering his coat when she shivers, running his hands over her forearms. Their fingers brushing when he hands her a soda from the cooler at a T-ball game. Archie chopping vegetables for the dinner salad, laughing at Betty’s attempt to blow her newly clipped bangs out of her eyes. 

Their encounters begin to feel inevitable as more time passes between them, less like a boiling point and more like a spontaneous energy eruption. All Betty knows is that her body doesn’t crave him until she has him, and when she does, she’s voracious. 

“Arch,” she pants when he ducks his head to bite at her collarbone. She pops the button of his jeans, shoving her hand inside when she has it halfway unzipped. 

He twitches against her palm, groaning against her skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, pulling at his jaw so he can kiss her mouth again.

His hand slips underneath her sweater, palm splayed against her small baby bump. 

Betty nips at his bottom lip, rubbing against him through his boxers. Her wrist is twisted, the metal teeth of the zipper against her veins, arm pressed awkwardly between them. She’d stay like this until her hand cramped just to feel him hard against her fingers. Archie rubs his tongue against hers, hot and suggestive. _Anything_ , she thinks. She would do anything for him.

It comes out: “I wish you could put a baby in me.”

His fingers stumble against the edge of her bra. 

“Betty,” Archie whispers, a cursed prayer between them. 

“Fuck me like you will.”

He does.

Raw and carnal, fingers laced together, mouth open and panting against her damp skin. She flattens her other hand against the foggy window and hooks an ankle around his calf. Archie squeezes Betty’s hand when he comes, and they chase a future they gave up long ago.

“And then I kissed Archie,” Betty says. 

“Because of the argument?” her therapist asks. Her curiosity is never marred by judgement. It doesn’t feel like a trap anymore. 

“I think it was the darkness in me,” she begins.

Her therapist glances over the rim of her glasses. “Betty.”

They’ve talked about this. Her desire to compartmentalize, her attempts to blame actions she deems wrong on something separate from herself. It’s a scapegoat, but it doesn’t erase the guilt. Betty doesn’t have to be perfect. She’s meant to say that to herself out loud while looking in a mirror (She does, once). 

“I don’t think I would have kissed him if Jughead and I hadn’t fought,” she admits. “And Archie was sad about Veronica, too.”

“It was pity, then?”

Betty fiddles with a button on her cardigan. The office is always cold, and she wishes she had worn tights underneath her sundress. “No.”

Her therapist is quiet, letting her think instead of offering an answer or a leading question. Therapy used to feel like a test she was bound to fail, but now it’s freeing. There are no wrong answers.

“I wanted to make him feel better,” she decides. “Archie doesn’t deserve to be sad.”

“Kissing a friend isn’t typically the way someone cheers them up.”

“I know.” She flushes, flipping the cross of her ankles. “I know.”

“Do you think you were trying to process the fight with Jughead?” She avoids harsh words like revenge or retaliation. 

“I didn’t do it to hurt him,” Betty rushes. “I wasn’t trying to… to distract myself. I wasn’t thinking about Jug. Not really.”

“What were you thinking about?”

Betty’s loosened the button. “Myself.”

Veronica pulls a little tin of mints out of her purse. “B?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Of course Jughead doesn’t mind the taste of garlic,” she says, popping the container open with a perfectly manicured nail. “He’s no Queen of England.”

“He doubles the garlic,” Betty adds.

Veronica rolls her eyes. “One of those.”

Betty smiles around the rim of her water glass. “Archie likes garlic.”

“Archiekins doesn’t know how to cook.”

“Neither do you,” Betty reminds.

Veronica waves her hand, and her pearl bracelet slides down her wrist. Like all her pearls, it was a gift from her late father, and she sanctifies him in death. “Who needs to cook when we have a personal chef?”

Betty laughs. 

“Ready to go?” 

She nods, taking one final sip of water before pushing her chair back. It scrapes against the brick. “My house is a wreck, and my mother is coming over tomorrow.”

“You need help cleaning?” Veronica swings her purse over her shoulder. 

“Come on, V. You’ve never worked a vacuum in your life.”

“And it says a lot that I’d be willing to learn for you.” She tilts her head, a smart, winning smile on her plum-stained lips. Linking her arm through Betty’s, she leads her down the path, heels clicking against the brick without wobble. 

“What are you and Archie doing tonight?”

Veronica waggles her eyebrows and laughs, a charming, lithe thing. “I’ll give you all the sordid details later.” A beat as they turn down the path toward the parking lot. “Unless that’s just rubbing it in?”

“What?” Betty’s laugh is much more cautious.

“Having children changes your sex life, Betty. Read any issue of _Cosmo_.”

“Oh. No. Jughead and I are totally fine in that department.”

Veronica hums an unconvinced note, but Betty is deadly serious. They might not come together with the same frequency as high school or college, but it’s fun and fulfilling whenever they do. The thrill of being quiet, occasionally breaking out a pair of handcuffs, the way Jughead’s jaw hangs open whenever she shifts her hips just right. 

There’s nothing missing from their relationship. Betty cannot think of a single point of contention, any complaint about Jughead as a husband or father, or any habit in need of breaking or forming. 

Well. 

Except the one. 

They climb into Veronica’s car, and Veronica waits until they’re on the expressway before saying, apropos of nothing: “Archie smells like you sometimes.”

Betty’s entire body goes rigid. She relaxes, deliberately and without a roll of the shoulders or flex of her hands. “Aggie crawls all over him whenever he comes by for her lesson.”

Veronica flips her signal, changing lanes and pressing on the gas pedal. Her eyes flash to the rearview mirror, then Betty. “It’s in his hair. All over his neck.”

“I’m not sure.” She shrugs. 

Veronica knows Betty doesn’t wear perfume. She knows the moisturizer Betty slathers on her legs when the winter air dries out her skin, the small bottle of hand lotion in her purse, the chapstick she dabs onto her mouth six times a day. Betty’s brain sorts through explanations and excuses, but each feels like a weak exposure of the truth. 

The speedometer hits 65. 

“You don’t have any ideas?” Veronica asks, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. 

“I don’t know.” Betty fights the urge to look out the window, waiting for Veronica to glance at her, mouth thin. 

Veronica shakes her head. “Sorry. I just... We’ve been having some… issues.”

“Issues, or the same issue?” Betty asks. 

“The same one,” Veronica sighs. Her hands clench around the wheel. 

Betty reaches over and gives her arm a reassuring squeeze. “He loves you, V. You’re what’s most important to him. He’ll choose you every time.”

Veronica’s scared smile sits unnaturally on her face, breaking Betty’s heart. 

“I know him,” she continues. “I know he will.”

Jughead groans when Betty’s phone vibrates against her nightstand. His arm tightens around her waist. Her eyes flutter open and then closed, readjusting her head on her pillow. She feels sluggish, as though woken in the middle of REM, body heavy and mind aching. 

Her phone buzzes again, so she reaches for it blindly, shifting away from her husband to squint at the screen.

It’s Archie. He’s outside. 

The fog in her head clears, and Betty types a response before grabbing her terry cloth robe and knotting the sash around her waist. She jams her feet into her slippers. 

The floor in front of their bedroom door creaks, and Jughead croaks out, “What is it?”

“It’s just Archie. I got it.”

“You sure?” he mumbles, but his eyes slip shut. 

“Yeah, go to sleep, Jug.”

Betty tiptoes down the stairs and unlocks the front door to find Archie leaning against his truck, hands shoved into his coat pockets and staring at the ground. He looks up when he hears her, eyes gaunt and mouth thin. 

There are more possibilities than there should be. This town slathered on the trauma before leaving them to fend for themselves. For a while Betty searched for more of it, more criminals, more murders, more mysteries, trying to fill the hole left after the adrenaline faded. Some nights she wakes in a cold sweat. She texts Veronica to make sure she’s alive, calls Archie to hear him breathing, splays her palm over Jughead’s heart to make sure it hasn’t stopped. 

“Archie,” she whispers. 

“It’s, uh, it’s my dad’s birthday.” His bottom lip trembles, eyes filling with tears, and Betty lunges for him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him close. Archie buries his face in the crook of her neck. He struggles to free his hands from his coat before returning the embrace and breathing heavy. 

She shakes with it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, grasping at her like a lifeline. 

Betty rubs his back, a soothing up and down motion. “It’s okay, Arch. It’s okay.”

Archie cries and cries. She can feel his tears damp against her skin, knows they’re seeping into her robe. Betty’s arms ache with the effort to hold him up as she whispers platitudes into his ear. She knows being here means more than any _It’s okay_ , but she wants Archie to have both. 

When he straightens up, eyes red-rimmed and mouth chapped, hands leaving her slowly like honey dripping down the side of the bottle, Betty offers a weak smile. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Archie says.

“Don’t apologize.”

Scrapping a hand over his face, he sighs. He blinks, eyelashes wet. “You made him a card every year.”

Betty nods, understanding. She wipes at the tear that falls out of her eye and swallows around the lump in her throat. 

“He kept all of them.There was glitter all over the box from that one, you know, where you tried to glue glitter to the entire right side of the card.”

“Red and blue?” she asks.

“That’s the one.” He exhales a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I have it,” he starts, pointing his thumb toward his truck. “I have them all.”

“You want some hot cocoa while we go through them?” 

“If that’s okay?”

“I’d really love to, Archie.”

He opens the car door, reaching across the driver’s seat and pulling out an old shoe box. The brand printed on the side matches the work boots Mr. Andrews always wore. Betty remembers the skewed way his boots would sit by the front door after a long day and how he learned to put them away after Mrs. Andrews left. 

Archie and Betty’s shoulders brush while they walk inside, and she locks the door behind them. A reflex. 

She refuses his help with the hot chocolate, urging him to sit down while she warms the milk and mixes in the powder. Archie’s shoulders slump, hands clasped in his lap. Betty feels his drooping eyes on her as she whisks, and she listens as his labored breathing slows and steadies. 

“I miss him,” Archie says, fiddling with the shoe box lid.

“I do, too.” Betty places her hand over his. 

She opens the box, four stray pieces of glitter stuck to the lid. Grabbing the card on top, Betty presses against the smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. She helped Archie draw a bunch of fish, green and blue and pink, his thin, slanted handwriting spelling out _It’s Offishial!_ underneath the shoal. Betty opens the card carefully, as though worried it’ll crumble in her hand: _You’re the best dad, Dad! Happy Birthday._

“This is a good one,” Betty says, sliding the card toward Archie until it nudges against his fingertips. “He had taken us fishing the summer before, remember?”

“I completely freaked out when I caught one.”

“You wouldn’t even touch it.” 

“It was gross,” Archie defends. “The hook sticking out of its mouth was so… gross.”

Betty nods. It’s strange to think there was a time when a fish on a wire was difficult to look at. They’ve seen pools of blood, a brain beneath a skull, a broken bone stuck through skin. “Your dad threw it back for you, and instead of grilling fish like we planned, we had dinner at Pop’s. You ordered the mac’n’cheese because you didn’t want to eat anything that had eyes.”

Archie shakes his head, a piece of hair falling forward. He has a sad smile in his eyes. “I did, didn’t I?”

“It was sweet.” 

Archie traces the crease of the card with his thumb. 

Betty grabs the next one. It was store-bought by Archie their freshman year when life seemed too hectic and sitting cross-legged on the floor in Betty’s bedroom doing arts and crafts seemed too juvenile. He still sat with her, though, his knee pressed into hers as she cut shapes out of foam paper. Betty called Kevin the moment Archie returned home, fingers dancing across her knee the entire time, biting around a smile as Kevin asked for minute detail. 

They go through the entire box. The glitter card, and the baseball card, and the year she taught Archie how to make pop up cards and it took three tries to get it right. The reminiscing warms in Betty’s stomach as the hot chocolate she made cools, forgotten. 

Fred wasn’t her dad, but in reality, he was the best father she ever had. 

“Thank you,” Archie says, tenderly touching the last card before returning it to the shoe box. The clock on the wall behind him tells that it’s close to two. The kitchen light buttressed by the darkness around them creates a liminal space, soft and cozy and slightly unreal, separating the two of them from the world. 

“Thank you,” she returns. 

A tendril of hair still sweeps across his forehead, out of place, so Betty leans forward to brush it back, leans forward to press her mouth against his skin, lingering just above his eyebrow.

Agatha’s hands are on her hips and she stomps her foot. “I don’t want pepper steak!”

“You’re too many years beyond the terrible twos and a few too many years out from your teenage angst crisis,” Jughead says. The pan sizzles, and he gives it a good stir.

“I don’t like peppers,” she insists.

“Your brother’s napping,” Betty says, switching the forks Agatha placed on the right side of the plates to the left.

“Just make me a PB&J!”

Jughead’s jaw clenches. “No.”

“Uncle Archie and Aunt Veronica would let me have one,” Agatha argues, face flushing pink, eyebrows scrunched together as she glares. 

“Aunt Veronica doesn’t even know how to use a microwave.”

It’s an unfair exaggeration considering how seriously she took her business at Pop’s. The grease burn from frying onion rings and the cut on her finger from chopping tomatoes. Even if she never cooks now, both left scars.

“Jug,” Betty warns. She grabs the carton of milk from the refrigerator, twisting the cap.

He meets her eyes, an amused, sarcastic glint in his. “And peanut butter and jelly is about the only thing Archie knows how to make.” 

“I wish I lived with them,” Agatha interrupts. “I wish they were my parents.”

Betty feels the sting despite knowing Agatha doesn’t really mean it. She’s upset about something trivial and lashing out. Betty threw plenty of tantrums growing up, justified and not. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? I mean it. They’re nice to me. Uncle Archie helps with my softball practices.”

Hurt flashes across Jughead’s face like a bolt of lightning, cracking like thunder. It reverberates as he looks at Betty, like he thinks she put the thought in their daughter’s head.

Jughead carves out time for their kids, creating space for them to share their lives with him. He offers comforting advice when Agatha worries about school, asking why Ethan is mean to her. He listens attentively when she reads to him at night, makes her laugh more than anybody else, and has only missed a handful of softball games while touring a new book.

He’s a great father. 

“Agatha Christine,” Betty hisses. “Go to your room.”

“Sorry you can’t handle the truth!”

“Go to your room. Now.”

Agatha rolls her eyes before stomping up the stairs and slamming her door, not once, but twice. 

The house is quiet, the baby doesn’t cry, and Betty sets the milk onto the counter. “She didn’t mean it, Jug.”

He exhales, shaking his head and turning toward the stove. “She’s just a kid,” he says.

It sounds like an accusation. 

Betty stares at the harsh wings of his shoulder blades, the knob at the top of his spine. “She’s testing our boundaries. Trying to see what she can get away with. That’s all.”

Jughead glances over his shoulder, blinking away a storm. “Yeah.” He pauses, rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah, I know. You read me a plethora of passages from those stupid parenting books.”

Betty forces a smile. “Maybe we should brush up.”

“I don’t know when we’ll find the time between work, sleep and ruining her life,” he jokes, but his jaw clicks with tension. “Maybe she should spend less time with Archie and Veronica.”

“I don’t think that’s the problem.” Betty frowns. “Or the solution.”

The pan sizzles again. “Okay. But if she becomes a Machiavellian asshole obsessed with getting justice through vengeance, that’s on you.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

When she takes Archie’s coat to hang in the closet, she notices the wrinkle in his shirt’s collar. Betty reaches up to smooth it out, static electricity pulsing through her fingertips. Archie nudges her ankle underneath the table, tilting his head to look at her, laughter shining in his eyes, fondness pushing at the corners of his mouth. He defends her fondness for cheesy romance novels when Jughead (fondly) makes fun of her. 

Archie trails the back of his hand across Betty’s wrist when he passes the rolls, tops off her wine without her having to ask, and laughs at her awful orange pun. 

Betty’s stomach flip flops like she’s fourteen. 

She feels silly, fawning underneath Archie’s attention. She clamps down around it and hopes she’s not blushing. Her fiance sits on the other side of the table arguing politics with her mother, unaware.

“How’s the paper?” Mrs. Andrews asks. 

“Good. They just have me covering city council meetings and profiling the florist. Nothing too exciting.”

“Did Ms. Muller tell you how she met her husband?”

“He asked for flower recommendations: her favorites, their meaning, good flowers for first dates. She helped him put together a bouquet, and he scribbled a little message on a card. When he handed the flowers back to her, she didn’t understand. He told her to read the card. It was addressed to her, asking for a date.”

Mrs. Andrews sighs, resting her hand over her heart and gazing at her girlfriend. “He’d been walking by the flower shop every day during his lunch break.”

“Ms. Muller tells it better,” Betty says. 

Archie’s hand settles on the crook of her elbow. “Pink hydrangeas,” he whispers. His warm breath tickles Betty’s skin. She fights a shiver. “Genuine emotion. Pink peonies, love at first sight, and sunflowers, loyalty, longevity.” Archie squeezes her arm. “Adoration.”

Betty bites the inside of her cheek. Kevin raises an eyebrow, half-scandalized. Shaking her head, Betty takes another sip of wine, dry where the coolers in Archie’s backyard had been sweet. Her heart hammers against her chest, skin tingling where Archie touched her. 

She waits to excuse herself to the bathroom, knowing Kevin will follow her if she bolts. 

Splashing water on her face, Betty breathes slowly, recalling the meditation she’s started doing every morning. She studies her reflection in the mirror, finding she looks the same. Betty clutches at the sink until it hurts, knuckles turning white. 

“I don’t have to be perfect,” she says. 

It’s a misuse of the exercise, an excuse to be selfish when she shouldn’t be, manipulating the work she’s done in therapy for destructive ends. She knows that. The knowing makes it worse. 

When Betty opens the door, Archie’s there. His eyes are dark and wide, boring into her, setting her on fire. “Hi.”

“Hey.” 

He leans into her space, eyes drifting down to her mouth. She inhales. He smells earthy and clean. Archie tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “How are you?”

“Good.” 

“Is this...?” he asks, fingers brushing across her temple and down her cheek, thumb swiping along her jawline. 

Betty tilts her head, trying to cradle her cheek in his palm. “I missed you,” she says in lieu of an answer. 

“I missed you, too.”

“I’ve been thinking about last time.” She touches his chest, contemplates pushing him back, but she likes the way he crowds her. Instead, she curls her fingers into the fabric of his dress shirt, pulling him closer so his body blocks the sun streaming through the window. 

The last time: three weeks ago, clearing the last of her things out of her childhood bedroom, nostalgia prickling behind her eyes. The bad long faded so all that remained was the good. All that remained was twirling around her bedroom with Kevin, their socked feet creating static against the carpet. All-nighters with Polly, holding their eyelids open as the sun rose, streaking the sky orange and pink. The sickly sweet laffy taffy that stained her fingerprints, the softness of her cotton sheets as she kicked her feet back and wrote oversized emotions into her journals. The revelation of loving and being loved, Jughead’s arms around her, greasy hair against freshly washed pillowcases. 

Betty had looked out the window, and Betty had seen Archie. 

The last time: on the floor of her childhood bedroom, greedy hands running over his skin and giggling into his neck. 

Archie mouthed at the hollow at the base of her throat. He said, “You’re my best friend.”

Young Betty, Teenage Betty, Candy-coated Betty heard it like: “I love you.”

Archie now, present and looming over her in a way that makes Betty (now and present) want to press her thighs together, says, “I wish we could--”

She cuts him off. “I know.”

His eyes are wide, filled with something raw and breakable, yearning and hopeful. Betty wants to crawl inside them. She wants to live inside him the way he has lived inside her since she was four and unaware that holding hands with the boy next door was going to alter her alchemy, crush her into powder and remake her into something different.

(It’s another excuse, as though Betty was too young to know instead of what it really was and is: a choice she made and remade long after she knew too much.)

“Arch,” she mouths, barely even a wisp of a thought. 

He kisses her, open-mouthed and desperate. He kisses her until they’re breathing each other’s recycled air, his hand large and hot on her neck, thumb underneath her chin, lifting her head toward him. Archie presses the pads of his fingers against her lips, gentle, his eyes sad and kind. She feels safe. She feels loved.

She does, she thinks. 

She does live inside him.

“I was so sure that Seaweed should be the culprit, but it didn’t feel right. As I was revising the earlier chapters, I realized it was too obvious.”

Betty hums, pulling the sheets over her shoulder. 

Agatha stayed home sick from school with a low grade fever that disappeared before noon, leaving her rambunctious and attention-seeking. Betty’s attempts to keep her engaged in something semi-educational and quiet were only half-successful. She had to track down an interviewee for a fact check, argue with one of her staff writers about their pitch, and finish a draft of her own article. Betty still feels the stress knotted at the top of her spine. 

“So I started looking for alternatives. It couldn’t be Debbie. And Rosebud is already the red herring.” Jughead stares at her, mouth twisted. 

Betty blinks. “Lenny?”

“Yeah.” His bright eyes brim with pride and satisfaction. 

“That’s great, Jug.”

“There’s nothing quite like the feeling of cracking a story,” he says.

He smells like soap from his shower. He isn’t smiling, but the effect on his face is the same, and a wave of love crashes against Betty’s ribcage. His passion invigorates her, surfaces the joys of being married to him, and crinkles her own eyes with happiness. Attraction swoops in her gut, and she reaches out, splaying her palm against his chest. “We could test that theory.”

Jughead huffs a laugh, bringing up a hand to rest over Betty’s. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m tired. I have an early meeting with the publisher’s PR department.”

PR is Jughead’s least favorite aspect of writing, probably because it has nothing to do with writing.

“I’m tired, too,” Betty says.

His fingers curl around her hand, underneath her palm, but he keeps hold of it, caging it against his heart. “Raincheck?”

Betty exhales, amused. She leans forward to press a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see if I can pencil you in.”

Slicing through the pie with her fork, the flaky crust leaves crumbs on Betty’s plate. Veronica and Archie brought it over freshly made by their personal chef. She skewers a peach, popping it into her mouth, sweet and tangy. 

“This is great,” Jughead says, attempting to collect the remaining syrup from his empty plate, pushing it all toward the divot by the rim with his fork. 

Veronica beams. “Thanks.”

“Anyone else want seconds?” he asks. 

Everyone declines, so Jughead shrugs before grabbing a second helping. 

Betty takes another bite of her piece, wincing at the shot of pain in her back. 

“You okay, B?” Veronica asks, eyebrows knitting together. 

“I’m good.”

“You’re due the 16th?”

“Yeah.” Betty smooths her hand over her very pregnant belly. She’s showing more than she ever did with Abigail, something about the muscles having stretched the first time, more elastic so her bump grows further from her body. “Hopefully he’s early.”

“Betty’s tired of being pregnant,” Jughead mumbles around a mouthful of pie. 

Veronica nods. “I can imagine.”

“You can’t,” Betty says. 

“Okay. I can’t.” She glances at Archie as though Betty snapped at her, and it makes Betty want to actually snap at her.

Betty’s back aches, bluish varicose veins web up her calves, and she has to pee constantly. She swears her first pregnancy was easier, but her mother promises she complained just as much, claiming Betty blocked out the difficult parts once she held Agatha in her arms, little hand curling around Betty’s finger. 

“Is there anything we can do?” Archie asks, mouth turned into a sympathetic frown. 

“Dear old mother-in-law has already asked about moving in just in case the baby comes early,” Jughead says. “If she found out we asked you to do anything, she’d be sleeping in the guest room before I could change the locks.”

“The offer still stands.”

“Have you decided on a name yet?” Veronica asks.

Betty looks at Jughead, imploring.

They’ve been batting ideas back and forth for months. From the overused like Matthew, to the fictionally inspired like Watson, to the tradition of Forsythe Pendleton. Her mom texts a new name suggestion every day, and Agatha insists her brother should be Olaf. But last week, as Jughead massaged Betty’s feet while they watched the news, he offered a simple idea that felt right. 

“Actually, about that,” Betty starts. “We were thinking, if it’s okay with you, we’re leaning toward Fred.”

Veronica exhales, eyes flitting to Archie. Her hand juts out, lightly squeezing his bicep. Betty knows there’s a potential conversation to be had between them. 

“It’s up to you. Take your time.”

Archie’s eyes grow wet, and he reaches his hand across his body to rest on top of Veronica’s. “That’s incredible, you guys. Yes. I-- Thank you.”

“We thought it’d be a good way to honor your father,” Jughead says. “And Betty would actually murder me before she named our son Forsythe.”

Archie laughs, awed, the sound thick from tears, and it squeezes around Betty’s growing heart. Bracing her hand on the table, she pushes up from her chair. Jughead grabs her other hand, faux wincing at the pressure she exerts as she stands. 

“Betty,” Archies rushes, crossing the space between them in two strides, instinctively knowing her intention and wrapping her in a hug. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“Thank you.”

She settles back in her chair, vaguely uncomfortable, but as comfortable as she ever is these days. Archie pulls Jughead into a hug next, face buried in his neck, low murmurs of gratitude echoing around the kitchen. Both boys have tears in their eyes when they part, and Jughead shakes his head, wiping them away. There’s still a toughness he falls back on.

“Don’t even think about Hiram as a middle name,” Veronica says. Uncertainty seeps into her expression, a different kind of uncomfortable, and Betty feels a pang of remorse. Maybe she and Jughead should have asked Archie in private, but as the saying goes, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.

Betty rubs her lips together, her chapstick still sticky. “I think I should tell him.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t honesty supposed to be the foundation of any healthy relationship?” 

Her therapist sets her pen down and leans forward. “Honesty is important. But do you want to tell Jughead because you think you should, or because you really want to tell him?”

Betty kissed Archie. Again. And again, she has her excuses: lack of sleep after finals week, staying up until the witching hour watching cooking competition shows on his sofa, the knitted blanket draped over their laps. Throwing popcorn into his mouth until she was tasting the butter on his tongue. Archie’s hands spread across the small of her back, and Betty’s tangled in his hair. 

When they broke for air, his forehead against hers, the blue light from the television flashing at odd intervals around them, his voice had cracked shamefully around her name. “What are we doing?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Betty had said, separating herself from him. She found herself on the opposite side of the sofa, chin on her knee, arms hugging her legs to her chest. 

They agreed, in aborted sentences, that they couldn’t continue. The lead of guilt weighing down her bones as she walked the path back home cemented it. 

“What happens if I don’t tell him?” Betty asks.

“I don’t know. How do you feel about it now?”

“I feel guilty.” She runs a hand over her hair until she hits her ponytail. “It’s just there, constantly. I feel sick to my stomach when I’m with Jughead. I worry he’s going to find out, and that he’s going to hate me, and I won’t even be able to argue because it’s awful. I’m a terrible person.”

“You’re not a terrible person, Betty,” her therapist says, voice soft and melodic, comforting. “You made a mistake.”

“Twice.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Betty presses her lips into a thin line. She’s a bad liar, but she doesn’t really know why she kissed Archie again. She doesn’t know why he kissed her back. Her brain snags on the thought like a thread on a needle. “I don’t know.”

Her therapist scribbles something in her notepad. 

“I was tired,” she supplies.

“It’s okay to not know, Betty,” her therapist says. Her smile is soothing. 

“I think,” she starts, scratching at her ankle with the toes of her shoe. “I always wondered what it’d be like. To be with Archie and to have him like me back.”

“Do you think he likes you?” 

Betty’s head goes a little fuzzy. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, breaking eye contact, but she notices her therapist jotting something in her periphery. Betty feels exposed, straightening her spine and then tightening her ponytail. 

She swallows. “Maybe. It seems like he might.”

“If he does, what would you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Why?” her therapist asks. 

Betty shrugs. “It’s too late. It would break Jughead’s heart, and I won’t do that. I won’t hurt him.”

“But telling him what happened would hurt him?”

Yes. 

She pictures his face crumpling, the betrayal eclipsing any understanding in his eyes, the tremble of his mouth. She can hear the accusations, wading through their entire relationship and recoloring it, asking if any of it was real. It was. It _is_. Betty just doesn’t know if he’ll believe her, if he’ll give her the space to explain something she doesn’t understand herself. 

She nods. _Yes_ , it would hurt him.

“I can’t tell you what’s best for you, Betty. I trust your judgment. But I want you to really consider where you want your relationship with Jughead to go, and I want you to think about whether telling him is about honesty or appeasing your own guilt.”

“Can’t it be both?”

It’s a question Betty’s been asking for a long time.

Betty knocks on Agatha’s door, laundry basket against her hip. 

“Come in!” Agatha calls. 

She’s a freshman in college, home for spring break. She studies journalism at Yale, and Betty’s the annoying mom with the bumper sticker on her car. There’s more Alice in her than she’d like to admit (Though, it’s better than the alternative).

“Laundry,” Betty says, lifting the basket. 

Agatha glances up from her phone. Her green eyes search Betty. Her hair has completely darkened, the slope of her nose and the arch of eyebrows a replica of Jughead’s. Her eyes are the only thing she inherited from her mother. Her eyes, and the cadence of her speech, and her love of the color pink. 

“I know you said you could do it yourself,” Betty explains. “But I was doing a couple loads and just threw in some of the stuff from your hamper.”

“Thanks,” Agatha says, body tense. 

Betty scrunches her eyebrows, wondering why Agatha is looking at her as though gathering reconnaissance. She’s been very careful not to smother her children, has never gone through Agatha’s drawers or read her journals. Betty didn’t even sort through her duffel bag to check if there were more items she could add to the load of delicates. 

“What’re you up to?” she asks, pulling open the sock drawer. 

“Texting Gertie.”

“How is she?”

“She’s okay. Her parents’ divorce is weird, though. She thinks they only stayed together for her.” 

Betty jiggles the drawer, working it closed. The dresser is old and finicky, but she and Agatha painted it together, and she doesn’t have the heart to throw it out. “That’s tough.”

Agatha hums, a tense, vibrating sound, and when Betty turns around, Agatha’s mouth is pursed, eyes narrowed. “We’re meeting at Pop’s tomorrow for breakfast. Is it okay if I take the car?”

“Yeah, of course. Fred will be at school. I have to go into the office, but your dad’s still waiting on line edits.”

“Thanks.” 

Betty smiles despite her daughter’s cold gaze, chalking it up to wanting time to herself. She hunches to grab the laundry basket and settles it against her hip. “There’s leftover blueberry crumble if you get hungry.”

“Are you sleeping with Uncle Archie?”

The question freezes inside Betty’s chest, a painful pressure pushing against her lungs. She wants to ask where the question came from, but Agatha’s smart and her stare accusatory. The deduction probably stems from multiple memories: Betty picking an eyelash off Archie’s cheek, the sound of her laugh in response to his, a huddled conversation while Jughead grills and Veronica goes inside to grab more wine. 

Betty says, “No.”

Archie rubs Betty’s back, just three quick strokes, down and up and down. “It’s going to be okay,” he says.

“You don’t know that,” Betty responds, head in her hands. “My dad was a serial killer, my mother puts even the concept of helicopter parents to shame, and my sister joined a cult.” 

“You’re the only person who got a perfect score when we had to take care of those dolls in middle school.”

His assurance makes it easier to breathe, and Betty sits upright. “You only remember that because I had to help you get your doll to stop crying.”

Archie’s laugh traverses the space between them and no farther, making the room seem smaller, more intimate. Everything seems less scary when his eyes connect with hers, his belief in her filling up the gnawing, terrified pit in her stomach.

“You could’ve gotten me an A if you had taken him at night,” he says.

Her mouth slants, amused. “I trusted your ability to not kill Little Han.” 

Archie nods, his smile tucking itself away. “You and Jug will figure it out together. You’re gonna be a great mom, Betty.”

“Thanks.”

The faint murmur of Veronica on the phone with her own mother bleeds through the door of her study. Betty wipes at her eyes. She isn’t the only person with a messed up family, and she has a solid support system to keep her afloat. Jughead’s in Texas finishing his book tour, but he’ll be home in less than a week. Kevin’s already gathering paint samples for the nursery, and Veronica and Archie welcomed her with open arms tonight after a cutting remark from her mom wiggled its way into her psyche. 

When Archie says she’ll be a good mom, Betty believes him. 

“And you’re going to be the best uncle,” she says. 

Archie’s face falls. He tries to catch it, but Betty has known him too long. 

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Archie.” She tilts her head, looking up at him. 

He sighs, scratching at the back of his neck, his shoulders hitching toward his ears.

“You can tell me anything. I promise it’ll help me forget my own embarrassing meltdown.”

Exhaling through his nose, he shakes his head. “Um, you know how Ronnie and I were talking about trying?”

Betty nods, waits patiently. 

“She decided she’s not ready.”

“Oh.” Betty clears her throat. It’s her turn to reach out, smoothing small circles into his back. She listens to the low melody of Veronica’s voice from the other room, breaking through in uneven intervals. “She’s busy opening the new restaurant, and all the stuff with her father’s will… but I’m sure, eventually, she’ll be ready.”

“That’s just it. She doesn’t know if she even wants kids.”

“Arch,” Betty whispers. 

“I know we should have talked about it. I know it’s--” he hiccups, blinks. “I really want to be a dad, Betty.”

“I know.”

“I love her so much.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I know you do.” 

“What if those things aren’t…” Archie trails off, wincing. 

Betty scooches closer, arm looping across his back so she can squeeze his bicep. She rests her chin on his shoulder and leans her head against his. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But I know you’ll figure it out.”

Archie’s hands are clasped in his lap. He’s still, and his voice comes out hoarse as though he’s been crying: “What if we don’t?”

She nudges at his jaw with her nose. “You’ll still have me.”

The edge of his smile ghosts against her mouth. 

Betty doesn’t move.

Her arm feels sore as she scrubs at the grass stains in the knees of her jeans. The thrill of how the green pressed into the denim still flushes Betty’s skin, adrenaline spiking in her blood, dirty and wrong and exciting. The scratch of the brush’s bristles against the fabric prickles, and Betty bites at her bottom lip. 

There’s a tap on the laundry room door, and she glances over her shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jughead says, leaning against the jamb, face blank. “What’re you doing?”

“Stain removal.” Betty’s ponytail tickles the back of her neck as she turns around, adding extra elbow grease. “Aggie’s practice went long, so I ordered Pop’s for dinner. One of us will need to pick it up in a few minutes.”

The offer she expects doesn’t come. Instead, the door clicks shut. 

Betty feels Jughead close, picking through the pile of laundry on top of the washing machine. He says her name, voice flat, a hint of strain like a bow without rosin against a viola’s strings. 

She glances sideways. “I think I’ll need to soak these.”

He smooths out a wrinkle in one of her dress shirts. 

“Are you okay?” Betty asks. 

“No.” He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “I’m not stupid, Betty.”

Her eyes drift to her husband, slowing the speed of her scrubbing. She wants to crack a joke, but it dries on her tongue. His face is hard, eyebrows knitted together. Betty glances at her jeans. She presses her hand against the stain, damp and bubbling with stain remover. 

“You’re making a fool out of me,” he whispers, a thread of anger coated in pain.

When he looks at her, it’s clear he knows. Maybe he’s always known. Betty’s heart thuds uselessly in her chest, mottled with sore spots and vicious cuts, too many of them self-inflicted. “Jughead,” she tries. 

He knows, and she still doesn’t want to give voice to it. 

“Softball moms like to talk while we’re sitting in the bleachers, Betty,” he says. “You’ve turned our marriage into a Pinter play.”

She blinks, and her fingers move of their own accord, brushing his wrist. He jerks away. It feels like a slap to the face, sharp and stinging. Betty knows she has no right to feel that way, but she does. 

“We promised not to keep secrets. We promised not to lie to each other. I always knew you and Archie were,” he says, gesturing, grimacing. “When I married you I understood what I was getting into, I just…” He huffs. “I didn’t realize you’d be so blatant and unfeeling about it.”

“I can explain,” Betty says, batting at a falling tear. “It’s not what you think.”

Jughead shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. I’m tired of digging into the dark underbelly of humanity, Betty. I love you, but I cannot deal with the Karens and the Lindas rubbing my arm and pitying me and fluttering their fake eyelashes because in whatever way that it’s true, they know you’re being an unfaithful cunt.”

She presses her palm against her mouth, her “I’m sorry,” muffled behind the skin. 

“I love you,” he repeats. “Just try not to look at Archie like the sun shines out of his ass in public, because I promise you? It doesn’t.”

Her vision swims. “I’m sorry.”

He rubs his forehead. His lips are chapped, his skin pale and patchy. “I’ll pick up dinner.”

She nods, not trusting her voice. 

“It fucking sucks that I love you so much,” Jughead mumbles, head down, like maybe that’s why he understands.

At six years old, Betty trips over her own feet jumping rope. She stumbles, scratching up her knee and palms on the sidewalk. She sobs, her entire body heaving with it. Archie kisses her knee, her right hand, and then her left hand. He does it again and again until she calms down.

In the middle of science class in seventh grade, Betty gets her first period. She’s wearing cute white capris with flowers embroidered along the leg, and when she stands, Cheryl notices the red blotch. She announces it loudly, pithy and cruel, a cheery smile plastered on her smug mouth. Betty wants to die. Archie tells Cheryl to shut up, pulling off his sweatshirt so Betty can tie it around her waist on the way to the nurse. 

Her parents start fighting (in earnest) freshman year, loud screaming matches that sometimes involve Polly. The night Betty hears a dish break, she tiptoes down the stairs, terrified, and sneaks across the street. Archie doesn’t ask when she shakes her head. She helps him with his English homework and he thanks her as though she’s doing him a favor instead of the other way around, the distraction of his furrowed brow and twisted mouth and newly deep voice a brief and welcome reprieve.

Betty groans and squeezes her fists. Her nails haven’t broken skin in years, and her therapist reminds her of it like progress. Betty’s felt stagnant for a long time.

Unclenching, she shakes her head. “It’s been over two years since the last time anything physical happened between us. And I just had to smooth out his eyebrow and lean in, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Why do you judge your progress based on physical affection?” her therapist asks. 

“It’s the line.” Betty frowns. “Crossing it hurts Jughead and Veronica.”

“Do you and Archie have intimate conversations?”

Betty’s frown thins. “Like what?”

Her therapist folds her hands in her lap. “Do you ever complain about Jughead to him? Ask for advice about fights you’ve had? Share joys or disappointments with Archie that you don’t share with Jughead?”

Jughead visited her father’s grave with her last month, held her hand and allowed her to grieve an evil man she hates. She doesn’t like to talk about her dad with Archie, guilt about what he did to Mr. Andrews clawing at her throat. She told Jughead about her promotion; they celebrated with champagne and a night to themselves. She texted the news to Archie from work, and he responded with his congratulations. Betty and Jughead discussed a summer vacation to Universal Studios with the kids, and she already has a document filled with a potential itinerary. Archie and Veronica plan on spending time in Maui the first week of August. 

“Sometimes? We’re best friends.”

“And you’re opposed to cutting off all contact?” her therapist asks. 

“Yes.” Betty’s eyebrows wrinkle. “His wife is my best friend.” Her therapist clicks her tongue as though she wants to ask whether that contradicts her previous statement. It doesn’t, not to Betty. “If Jug and I die, they get custody of our kids. I can’t cut Archie out of my life. I won’t do it.”

“You won’t do it?”

“No.”

Her therapist jots something down, and Betty bristles. 

“Some people in my field think of affairs as an addiction,” she offers tentatively.

“What?” 

“The connection you feel with the affair partner is linked with a flood of dopamine to the brain. The secrecy can bond you, and the rush of it can be addictive. Eventually, the high of the affair wears off, and it can leave you feeling anxious about getting caught. Or guilty about what you’ve done. Even if you break it off, you can backslide.”

“You think I’m addicted to cheating?” Betty asks.

Her therapist shakes her head, smiling soft, sad, kind. “I think it’s a lot harder for you to stop if you don’t cut Archie out of your life. You’re emotionally connected, and since it has already manifested from an emotional affair into a physical one, it seems like it’ll be very difficult to stop. You cannot keep ignoring the problem and expect it to fix itself, and you cannot keep doing the same thing expecting a different result. You’re stronger than you know, Betty, but nobody’s Superman.”

Betty exhales, tears pricking at her eyes. 

She could tell Jughead. He suspects enough to understand, and Betty suspects Veronica knows in her gut, too. Too scared to really admit it. There are so few people in her life that Veronica trusts, and Betty doesn’t think Veronica can let herself believe Betty and Archie would violate it. Betty could pretend she and Archie had a huge fight, the details unimportant, to be decided upon later.

She wants to be a better person. She wants to feel like she’s _good_ , again. She wants to be faithful. She doesn’t want Jughead to feel second best, and she doesn’t want to hurt all of the people she cares about most. 

But.

“I can’t.”

She tucks in her trembling bottom lip, and her therapist hands her a tissue, causing a tear to roll down her cheek. She can’t stop crying after that, body curling in on itself as she sobs on the sofa. Betty has felt worse. She knows that, objectively. 

It doesn’t feel true. 

A week later, at the end of her appointment, her therapist asks if she wants to keep coming back.

Veronica bites a fry in half, eyes narrowed but playful. “Shut up. It’s not my fault my esthetician fucked up my chemical peel.”

“You didn’t need a chemical peel, V.”

“I wanted one, so I got one. Treat yourself.” She smiles, popping the rest of her fry into her mouth. 

Betty laughs, grin finding its way around the straw of her milkshake. She takes a sip, letting the sweetness coat her tongue. Snow drifts to the ground outside, melting against the asphalt, but Betty likes the cold. She wears her warmest knit sweaters and cotton tights, lets Jughead leave hickeys at the base of her neck. 

The bell rings, and she catches Kevin’s eye, waving him over. 

He looks at her, and Betty knows his serious, concerned face better than almost any of his other faces (Kevin’s hot gossip face barely edges it out). His gaze drifts to Veronica, and he shakes his head before nodding her toward him. 

Veronica twists in the booth. “Hey, Kev!”

“Hey,” he calls, pulling off his gloves as he approaches. “What’s up?”

“It’s a no boys allowed, girl bonding night,” Veronica says, waggling her eyebrows. “Wanna join?”

“Considering I identify as a man? I’ll have to pass. Mind if I steal Betty from you real quick? No? Thanks.” He grabs Betty’s elbow, pulling her out of the booth. 

Veronica pouts. 

“Just one minute,” Kevin promises. “Love you!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Betty asks, stumbling as he tugs her toward the hallway to the bathroom. 

He cranes his neck and checks that they’re alone. “You texted me at 2AM saying it was a best friend emergency, and then when I texted you at a normal human hour, you said we’d talk later. It’s later.”

“I…” Betty blanches, shrugging. 

“Did you and Jughead break up? Is the wedding off? Are you pregnant?”

“No,” she hisses, grabbing Kevin’s hand. “I slept with Archie.”

“ _What_?!”

“Shh.” Betty claps her other hand over his mouth. “Be quiet, Kevin.”

He licks her palm, and she rolls her eyes, removing her hand and wiping it on her skirt. 

“How was it?” he asks.

Betty’s face warms. It was nice, his calloused hands tender on her skin, thumb swirling patterns on the inside of her thigh. It felt like her heart was beating everywhere at once, open and exposed. His mouth ghosted along her jaw, her skin sensitive and overheated. It was hot and sweet and… Archie.

“That good, huh?” Kevin’s eyes sparkle, corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. 

“Yeah.” She gently smacks his arm. 

They stare at each other, and Betty sees Kevin’s brain click through a slide projector of questions, sees him sober. He thumbs at the small engagement ring on her finger. “What about Jughead?” 

“I’m not going to tell him.”

“And the ring?”

“I’m going to marry him.” She tries to smile, but her facial muscles don’t comply. “It’s the first time Archie and I slept together, but it’s not the first time we’ve…”

“Betty,” Kevin exhales.

“I know.” A beat. He raises an eyebrow. “ _I know._ ” 

Whatever relief and clarity she thought she might garner from a confession when she messaged Kevin last night intertwines itself with guilt and worry. He won’t tell. Kevin’s a good secret keeper and an even better friend, oftentimes when she least deserves it. He looks at Betty with skepticism, not like she’s an entirely new person, but like she got bangs and didn’t tell him. 

Except worse. 

“Do you think I’m an evil person?” she asks. 

“No.” Kevin ducks his head, staring directly at her. “I think you’re human.”

Betty lies on the picnic blanket, hair spread around her like a halo, eyes closed. The sun warms her skin. She smells the sunscreen smeared on her arms and legs, hears the Beach Boys’ songs playing from the phone on the other side of the nearest tree. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Archie asks, fingers trailing up and down her arm, climbing the slope of her shoulder and nudging underneath the strap of her tank top before retreating. 

Biting around a smile, she opens her eyes. “How nice this is.”

“What’s this?” he asks. His fingertips circle the knob of bone in her wrist before tracing down her hand. 

“You know.”

“I do,” Archie agrees. He smiles, wide and winsome. “I just want to hear you say it.”

“Today. With you.”

Together they prepared a picnic basket. Betty assembled the sandwiches and Archie rinsed the grapes. Driving out of town, they rolled the windows down, held hands and listened to a playlist he created the night before. She presses her forehead against his shoulder and laughs when he reminds her of the snowman they attempted to build in first grade. She brushes a soft, grateful kiss to the corner of his mouth when he enthuses about her last article despite her editor marking it _acceptable_.

Betty’s head is clear. She doesn’t have to second guess a casual touch or worry about Riverdale gossip. The bad feeling might cloud her later when she’s back in her and Jughead’s apartment, shooting a quick goodnight text before dozing off. But right now the heady rush of a secret gives way to the gentle caress of Archie’s hands around her heart. 

“It is nice,” he agrees, lacing their fingers together before settling next to her. He brings Betty’s hand to his chest, splaying her fingers over his heart. “You feel that?”

She hums in acknowledgement, nose scrunching with a smile. 

“You make my heart go crazy, Betty.”

“Me too.”

He rolls over, pressing a kiss to her cheek, trailing down until he finds her mouth. 

Archie’s “I love you” is painted against her lips, glowing in the sun’s rays, mixed with the melody of “God Only Knows.”

Betty stares at the heavy, wooden doors as the beginning notes of her entrance song play. Her heart pounds against her ribcage. Her palms are damp with sweat. 

“You ready?” her mom asks. 

“Yes.” 

She takes her mom’s proffered arm, bolstered by her encouraging smile. The doors open, and Betty begins her walk down the aisle, the careful steps she and her mother practiced during rehearsal. Her lips press together, curved at the edges. She catches Jughead’s eye and smiles wider. 

Gaze drifting right, she finds Archie.

Betty’s vision blurs, her mother’s grip tightening to keep her standing. Archie offers an encouraging smile. He blinks back the wetness in his eyes, and she bites back the sob blocking her throat. 

A few tears streak down Betty’s face. 

Veronica hands her a handkerchief when she reaches the front of the church. “A lot of brides cry at their weddings,” she whispers. “Don't worry.”

Betty dabs underneath her eyes. 

She tries to pull herself together.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first 2/3rds of this before the article leak, and I just think that's neat. I'm also on Twitter [@saoirseegot](https://twitter.com/saoirseegot).


End file.
